


On smiles and laughters

by SkyEventide



Series: In memory of a Jewelwright [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, I'll leave the angst for another day, shameless family fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 00:59:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2209671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyEventide/pseuds/SkyEventide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For how relevant anger and resentment can be when it comes to Fëanor and his family, it is foolish to believe he never smiled. Of course he did. Only, not many ever saw him, and even less remember. (A collection of happy fics.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fëanor, Nerdanel, Maedhros

**Author's Note:**

> With Maedhros and Nerdanel.
> 
>  
> 
> [This fanart was my inspiration.](http://whosamawhatsit.tumblr.com/post/92072727950/feanor-and-nerdanel-i-like-to-think-feanor-was)

     Nelyafinwë had a peculiar way to look at him, in certain moments: he stared, sitting decorously like a small adult, he observed with an intent gaze and pursed his lips, and never spoke, not before he seemed absolutely certain of what he wanted to address. Fëanáro noticed that it was very much alike to how Nerdanel behaved, and maybe he was copying her habit, and noticed also that such was his wife’s approach whenever he showed the slightest hint of an upset mood.

     « Why are you not satisfied with it? », asked his son, after the long minutes of silent observation.

    Not asking  _if_ he was not satisfied, but why. Fëanáro put down the compasses and pursed his lips, giving him credit at least for the perspicacity; the interruption aggravated him more than the question itself, for questions while he worked were not  _always_ a bother when he could simply reply and go on with what he was doing at the meantime.

     He placed his hands on the desk and clasped his fingers together, forcing them to stay still. « The answer is simple, Nelyafinwë. Because I am aware there are things I can and must fix, and yet I cannot remain concentrated enough to do it. »

     His son shifted his weight on the chair across the desk, that he occupied silently everytime Fëanáro let him inside the study. « Should I leave? », he suggested, tilting his neck.

     Fëanáro glanced at him askance – his firstborn was quiet and the core of the problem had hardly anything to do with him. « It matters little whether you stay or not, Nelyo. » Then his eyes concentrated again on the process of compression that would lead to the creation of gems – not their mere  _shaping_ and  _cutting_ , but the act of creation that would make a gemstone out of dust. The paper was covered in neat Sarati, but the vagueness of his annotations was not enough to call it a project yet.

    He disliked what was vague, for it was either a sign of lack of knowledge or lack of competence.

     The door cracked open and he looked up, right in time to see his son leave the room discreetly. Fëanáro frowned, just slightly, but did not call him back: it was not a day to give him lessons, not even those about knowledge and inspiration. The latter did not strike people without being teased, bribed, coaxed, hunted down; the former did not come from above as a gift from Ilúvatar, it had to be earned.

    Yet, his mind was elsewhere, with words that had not been pronounced for him to listen to them, but such that would not leave his thoughts. The paper before him could have been blank and would not have made any difference.

     The door opened again and he saw Nelyafinwë bringing in Nerdanel by his hand. He raised a brow and watched his firstborn sit on the chair again, as his wife walked around the desk to come to put a hand on his back and watch the notes from behind his shoulder. « Maitimo tells me you are angry », she said, in a low timbre.

     « I am not. What I am is distracted, which by consequence makes me frustrated », he corrected. He felt her mind brush his own, a sensation not unlike the one of fingers sliding through locks of hair and untangling them.

      _We both know where that leads_ , her thoughts whispered, raveling layers of his looping thoughts. _You being distracted is not a new thing, but frustration because of that is rarer. I would not believe that another could carry one more than one project at once, but I know you. What kind of distraction can burden you so?_

     Fëanáro inhaled, kept a stern wall of protection around his annoyances, then glimpsed at Nelyafinwë and exhaled. She did not judge the uneasiness at the bottom of it, did not dismiss that last veil – thus he opened her the curtain and let her see his bother – a mere sentence from a bystander commenting on young Ñolofinwë’s athletic performance, on how much it seemed to see Finwë again, when he was still a Tatya in the days of his youth. Fëanáro did not care at all about the performance, but the comment that he had overheard, that had dug a hole in his head.

     Nerdanel only nodded and retreated from his mind, slowly, and as slowly her hands reached his neck and then jaw, and touched his cheeks close to his pursed lips.  _That kind of statements never stopped you before, as far as I remember. But in any case, you do not need this project now just to prove them wrong._

 _I need it_ , he replied, just in the moment she pulled his lips with her index fingers. He was certainly making a face, such that Nelyafinwë curled his mouth in an amused expression.

      _You do not_ , she insisted, with a soft tone.  _Look at Maitimo, he was worried._

     Fëanáro stared at his son, whose eyes sparkled. Nerdanel hooked the corners of his mouth and stretched them showing part of his teeth. « Not your father’s best smile, is it? » she chuckled, talking with Nelyo.

     Nelyafinwë cackled, holding his belly, and his voice made a silvery sound. His wife was quick to release him, and it was the echo of both of their laughters that lifted part of the weight from his mind. A low chortle left his chest as he lay his wery gaze upon the words that he had written.


	2. Fëanor, Curufin, Celebrimbor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father and son talk about the birth of Celebrimbor and about his names.

« Tyelperinquar » he repeated, articulating all the syllables as to give a shape to the name inside his head. Fëanáro’s lips stretched in a smile. « It is rather euphonic. »

Curufinwë, sitting on the other side of the small metal table, nodded. He was more still than one would expect after the birth of a son and a relatively easy labour, certainly more still than his usual, but Fëanáro could not remember his own reactions immediately after the birth of his first child. He did not comment it.  « Have you decided his ataressë yet? », he asked instead.

His son nodded again. « I have chosen what I thought would be the most honourable for him, for you and for the House. It is Curufinwë. »

Fëanáro blinked, but the smile did not disappear. His fifth son honoured him quite enough and the feeling before that sentence, that held the odd sound of a confession, was closer to pride. « I am glad. And it would be a pleasant development if he held true to it while growing. »

« I expect and hope so. »

Fëanáro raised a brow in amusement. « I expected and hoped the same for all of your brothers – still, after all I gave the name to the one who deserved it the most. » —And, as he turned to fill a glass of water for the both of them, Curufinwë blew his breath out of his nose and his shoulders released some tension. The bottle was made of blown glass and he did notice a slight imperfection in the otherwise harmonious shape, but his eyes soon were captured by the game of the refracted light of Laurelin.

His son cupped the glass and brushed a fingertip on the border before picking it up and drinking a single sip.

Fëanáro refreshed his mouth and glanced at the garden outside the terrace. « Try to put him to sleep always at the same hour », he added after a moment. « That might avoid you to wake up in the middle of the hours of Tyelperion or interrupt what you are doing to take care of him. But he might take after you. »

Curufinwë leaned forward, glass still full, and frowned, but spoke only after being encouraged with a nod. « Was I that unruly? »

Fëanáro snorted. « No, you were not. » He hesitated for a moment, captured inside his own memories, and relaxed against the chair. « Not as much as me, if I listen to what my father once told me, and not as much as some of your brothers. Once Canafinwë cried so loudly I had to leave the forge and to this day I do not know whether it was because of the Ósanwë with your mother or I truly  _heard_ him from there. »

His son took another sip of water and he realised he was pointlessly keeping the glass in his hands as well; he emptied it. Curufinwë stared at him. « You left the forge? »

« I did. And another time when your mother called me, for you would not sleep at all. » Thus he stood up and straightened his back and raised a brow when Curufinwë looked almost mortified.

« …Forgive me for that » he soon murmured, as to unrealistically correct the behaviour of his infant self. Placing the glass back on the table, he pushed himself up as well.

Fëanáro raised his brows and the corners of his lips curled up. « There is hardly the need to forgive a newborn because he cries. In any case, you stopped when I arrived. » He placed a hand between Curufinwë’s shoulder blades. « Now let us go inside, I wish to see again my first grandson. »

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no true proof that Celebrimbor's father-name might be Curufinwë, but it's an idea that I enjoy. By consequence, Tyelperinquar becomes a mother-name (in the Ñoldorin form of the name, with the y instead of Telperinquar.)


	3. Fëanor, Maglor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little less happy than the other two, but there's still a little smile in all that angst. Set during the time of the Darkening.  
> Canafinwë is Maglor's Quenya father-name.

    « Sleep, father. »

     Fëanáro raised his gaze from his notes and met Canafinwë’s, who stood on the tent’s threshold, his figure illuminated only by the blueish light of the lamp inside; behind him, the world outside was black. « Should you not be supervising the cavalry? », he asked.

     « I was, until a moment ago », his son answered, stepping in and approaching the desk. « I came to see if you were resting. » Canafinwë’s voice was low, soft, and there was a weight on the silence that came after his sentence which told him,  _I knew you were not._ Still, Fëanáro did not lay down his quill.

     « I have slept enough », he replied. Theorically, it was true; in practice, there was an ache in his muscles, a pain deeply set behind his forehead, his eyelids felt heavy, and none of that was a mere failing of his body. The burden was deeper, it twisted his stomach and lit up his spirit. He looked down at the Thindarin words he was writing down in that northern variation.

     His son, however, did not relent. « Father », he repeated.

     Fëanáro heard that voice as if it came to him from distant years, in which the light was silver and his second son barely reached his knee. His second son— coming to his desk, a much heavier, refined, carved ebony desk, and hiding a gleeful smile as he climbed his leg and placed his little hands, still smooth, upon his eyelids. _Go to sleep, dad_ , told him that young ghost.  _Go to sleep_ , whispered the child of his memory, giving him a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose. The chuckle that arose in his chest was ancient also.

     Fëanáro did not lay down his quill even then, yet, slowly, he tentatively stretched his lips in a smile, wan, but a smile nonetheless. Canafinwë’s eyes shone and widened.

     « Go back to the cavalry », he murmured, and his son stared at him with half a smile on his face also, frozen in place. Then sighed and nodded. 


End file.
